


This skin don't feel like home

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. [1]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Also I'd like to formally apologise to Wato Tachibana for doing this to her), Angst, F/F, but it ends all right guys, post ep8 reunion angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: Is it a wonder she doesn’t want to stay, not when everything reminds her of Sherlock, of the cavern in her chest of the silence, the painful, piercing silence, not even a cello playlist breaks it. It only grows and grows as if it’s moving in, as if it needs to encompass the entire apartment, as if it’s hungry and won’t stop until it swallows it all –Until it swallows her.(Or Sherlock's gone, and Wato's left with the pieces. Until she's not.)





	This skin don't feel like home

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I can only do fluff and angst in fluctuations. This one was written in one sitting so I apologise for any error and if the quality's not up to par.
> 
> Title from PVRIS' song "What's Wrong"

 

_Glacialis – (Latin) icy, frozen, full of ice_

\--------- 

221b is silent. Wato’s never know it to be silent. Quiet of course, on more occasions than she can count, most with her doing reading or making tea or – or sorting through case files – or going through Sherlock’s –

Mostly with Sherlock.

With her steady presence, her absentminded tapping, her collected restlessness – yes, that’s a thing, however oxymoronic it sounds and no matter how many times Wato’s brain freezes at the comparison – and her oddball facts and her piercing eyes and her grin – that infuriating grin, always –

But she’s gone.

But Wato’ll never see it again.

She’s gone and Wato’s left with the silence instead, left with the cold despite being bundled up in her coat, despite cradling the green coat in her arms, despite sitting in her apartment, surrounded by her things, despite being in her space –

Wato’s never felt so out of place. Not even the first day here, when she was hesitant to touch anything, skipped over most things and barely sat anywhere until their reached her room. Until Sherlock made a comment about standing in her way. Or was it haunting like a ghost? No, it couldn’t be, Sherlock didn't believe in ghosts.

Wato’s feeling like one right now. Hollowed out. Her hand keeps pressing against her chest, and it’s sturdy beneath her shaking fingers but it feels like she could push through and find a void. A large cavern _drip drip dripping_ where her heart should be. An echo of a cello.

She shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t feel right. Not without – not when it’s so – not when she – because she – because Irikawa – _because you, you held it, you pressed it to her chest_ – but she didn’t pull it, she didn’t pull the trigger, she didn’t –

It doesn’t matter. Sherlock’s gone. She’s dead. _She died saving you._

_What’re you doing here, Wato? The funeral’s today._

The funeral was today.

She can’t remember it.

And the dripping turns into a waterfall, echoing, cascading down her cheeks and the silence steals her voice, leaves her with broken sounds that can’t be hers – so raw, and vulnerable and wet and – like scrapping gravel and sand –

_In non-tropical locations, the most common constituent of sand is silicon dioxide, but you’d know it as silica._

“I’m sorry,” Wato presses into the green coat. She inhales, catches the remains of an achingly familiar scent and something inside of her _breaks_. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. Again and again and again. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry –_

The silence is deafening.

———————

Mrs Hatano lets her stay. Tells her to stay. Maybe not in words but her looks are painfully clear and achingly loud and Wato doesn’t think she’ll survive hearing those words. She barely survives the nights, tossing and turning, phantom weight in her hands, a voice whispering in her ear – _“I’ll count to three and then you’ll shoot her”_ – her mind ringing with the bang and – and –

And seeing red before her eyes. Having hands shake against hers, slowly slip away, nails dragging and seeing crimson drip down familiar lips – not curved in a smile, not lopsided with a grin – not smart, or enticing or intricate or wicked – pale and red and whispering

_Wato._

Is it a wonder Wato has bags under her eyes when she jumps awake, fingers digging into her wrist, tears down her face and a cry at the tip of her tongue, just beneath her lips, scrapping against her throat – _Sherlock!_

Is it a wonder she doesn’t want to stay, not when everything reminds her of Sherlock, of the cavern in her chest of the silence, the painful, piercing silence, not even a cello playlist breaks it. It only grows and grows as if it’s moving in, as if it needs to encompass the entire apartment, as if it’s hungry and won’t stop until it swallows it all –

Until it swallows her.

Wato puts on large red headphones and cranks up the music until she can’t hear the sobs, until the image of taunt strings replaces the feeling of shaking. Until it resonates in her chest and brings a pinch of warmth. Calming. Fleeting. Until she doesn’t have a name of a ghost at the tip of her tongue.

Wato stays even as everything in her breaks. Because Mrs Hatano has lost one of them, and she doesn’t deserve to lose another. Because Wato might be hollow and barely holding herself together but she’ll be damned four times before she lets that happen to Mrs Hatano.

So Wato stays. Puts on a practiced smile and wonders who looks at her in the mirror. Cleans the house to the beat of a cello – a recording, not the real thing, not from the sitting room. Helps over breakfast and when she goes for the coffee –

So Wato stays.

And pretends her hand doesn’t shake when she returns the coffee to its place. Pretends the hand on her shoulder isn’t the only thing keeping her anchored.

———————

She finds the sketchbook by accident. She didn’t mean to go through her things, just to tidy up, just to keep it organised, just so she doesn’t trip over anything, doesn’t accidentally spill anything –

Wato finds it and finds herself opening at the bookmark before she can think better of it. Opens it at a bunch of sketches of koi, and she can’t help but laugh, though it leaves her more as a broken exhale, a half-formed thing catching at the top of her mouth and wetting her lips. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, to stop what comes next less it spills out, less it reaches her ears and starts it all again, less it chisels her chest further –

Because there’s a half-finished sketch in the top right corner, and it’s set up to take most of the right page and – it’s not finished, not ever close compared to the koi, but – But there’s just enough details for Wato to make it out, enough of a face, the flow of hair, the suggestion of an expression and _it hurts._

Like being stabbed.

Like sharpness dragging against her back.

Like Sherlock jumping all over again and

_She can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe_

_Inhale_

_One two three four five six seven_

_Exhale_

_One two three four five six –_

The covers press against her chest and it hurts.

———————

She should see someone about this. Wato knows this, knows that’s how you process grief how you – how you mourn properly. But after Irikawa, after what she’s used – everything Wato gave her willingly, everything even Sherlock – Wato cannot bring herself to go. Cannot imagine sitting across from someone and not flinching at phantom bangs, not rubbing her hands at the feel of phantom fingers sliding over, at a voice whispering _– “You’ll shoot her”_ –

Wato cannot go and not be sick.

So she doesn’t go. Barely leaves the house save for the garden, to keep Songbird company. Or vice versa. She’s pretty sure she’s shit company right as she is. But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t whine. Sings and flutters next to her and chirps and it’s almost enough.

_Nothing will be enough._

———————

She should find a job.

She should get back to her feet.

She should move out.

———————

(She does none of those things.)

———————

It happens by accident.

Lies. That is the biggest lie Wato’s told herself, the biggest lie to believe – to believe she does anything by accident. That she just happens to be on the street to 221b, that she happens to look dishevelled and an entirely different outfit than when she jumped –

And it’s that detail that makes it real. If Wato imagined it, if the woman standing before her is a hallucination, then why would she be in different clothes? Why wouldn’t she be in the telltale coat, with the black shawl, why wouldn’t she be like the Sherlock haunting her dreams.

She has the same smile – open, and adoring and –

_“I’ll take your bullet.”_

“No. No, you’re not here,” Wato says even as she knows it’s the truth. It’s Sherlock – really Sherlock, her Sherlock, _her Sherlock_ – alive and all right and not dead not buried in a cemetery, not dead because of her, not shot, not dead –

“Wato.”

Oh how she’s missed than voice, soft yet clear, imploring yet relieved, alive and well and _oh so painful._ Alive and well and _I thought you were dead._

“How dare you?” Wato demands, hands clenching, fingers digging into her palm – no gun, never again, no gun, just her palm – and glares at Sherlock. “How dare you?! How – to just show up, like – like you were out on a stroll?! Like you weren’t –”

_Dead dead dead dead_

_Because of me._

“You couldn’t have called. Or sent a text. An obscure picture of your safehouse. An elaborate riddle. A fucking hey.” And it’s then that Wato notices how close she’s gotten, notices how Sherlock keeps her hands in her pockets, how her brows are pinched low, how her jaw’s locked painfully –

How she’s coiled but standing firm, taking it all in and anything else Wato’s willing to throw her. How she doesn’t even flinch as Wato steps closer – she can’t tell you why she does it, why she’s just drawn to this insufferable woman who faked her death and didn’t bother to even tell her friend –

_“My very first friend.”_

“I mourned you,” Wato whispers but her eyes don’t stay on Sherlock, can’t stay at the sound of a sharp intake, can’t look her in the eyes and see the reaction. Her cavern's overflowing, looking more like a basin and aching against her skin, struggling to break free, threatening to flood her. She’s barely keeping it together as is, barely – her knees are shaking, her hands hurt, her shoulders are heavy and her lips – they keep dancing, twitching, shaking, her words they won’t – they won’t work –

“I mourned you, Sherlock. I thought you _died_.” She presses the words into something soft, digs her fingers into the material – oh, when had she done that, when had she stepped forward – or maybe she fell, she can’t feel her legs – the material’s soft against her forehead, against her eyes and if she inhales a familiar scent hits her and _Sherlock._

“I thought you died because of me,” Wato whispers. Or sobs. Sobs is more accurate, what with how her shoulders are shaking, with how her fingers are desperate against the fabric, how she breathes and breathes but barely any air’s coming up, how she can’t –

“I’m sorry” is pressed atop her head, a breeze solidified and something – two somethings come up along her shoulders, press into her spine and she can’t – _She’s alive, she’s here, she’s fine, the paranoid, wonderful, infuriating, kind woman_ – and Wato just can’t.

The last thing she remembers is Sherlock saying her name.

_“You’ll be free, Wato.”_

_Without you does it matter?_

———————

(Something’s shifting beneath her cheek, cold and smooth and rhythmic. Lulling.

Something else is holding her steady, equally rhythmic. Comforting.)

———————

Wato startles with a sharp inhale, fingers clenching until she realises she’s not holding onto sheets. Realises then sees her hand in another – eyes follow to its source and she does a double take at seeing Sherlock, curled around her knees and sitting close. Curled with most of her face hidden beneath her elbow, eyes trained on Wato, studying yet – yet uncertain.

But alive.

Not dead – alive.

_Yes, that’s the definition of not dead, Wato._

Wato just stares, mouth agape and – her hand twitches, tugs as if to pinch herself but she forgot, forgot it’s in Sherlock’s – _alive alive alive alive_ –

But Sherlock notices, eyes snap to their joint hands and it looks like she forgot as well. She jerks her hand back, shifts to retreat entirely and Wato can’t allow that, not again, not after that hell of a week – or was it a month – _an eternity, in silence, with whispers of your, with a shadow haunting me_

_Why did you haunt me so?_

Wato grabs the hand before it slips away, holds her steady against the tug, drags her closer, an equidistance between them and stares back at Sherlock, tries as best she can to tell her _stay stay stay stay_

_Please._

_Don’t go I thought you were dead._

_Please I’m not sure I can take it._

_It was Syria all over again._

_Please._

And if possible Sherlock’s eyes squint in pain, her face morphs minutely before she hides it behind a current of overgrown hair. But Wato catches a hint of movement, catches Sherlock bite her lip before she clears her throat and looks up.

Wato’s throat clogs at the open sadness in them.

“I’m sorry.” And the words hang between them, heavy as humidity, final as a chisel against Wato’s chest, but – But she can finally hear her heartbeat instead of a cello, drumming in her ears, beating against her throat. Finally hears the quiet and not the silence. Finally breathes without fearing she’ll tear herself apart.

“I couldn’t risk – they were still hunting me, Wato, I couldn’t lead them –” And Sherlock face pinches painfully, and she closes her eyes as if the unspoken words are a physical blow and _oh. I couldn’t lead them here._ “It’s not excuse for – for this. For doing this. But –” Sherlock opens her eyes and something settles in Wato’s chest, settles and twists at the look in her eyes. “It’s the truth. I would never – Never, Wato.”

_I would never hurt you like this like that. Never on purpose. Never to you._

Something pricks at the back of Wato’s eyes and she’s not sure where the energy to cry comes from. She’s spent well over her limit. Spent tenfold over the woman sitting before her, imploring her, silently begging in her own way – and Wato’s not sure she can. Not yet, not when she just got her heart back, not when the cold of the cavern, the weight of the silence is so fresh, not when she doesn’t know –

Not _yet_.

“You’re a mess,” Wato says, and laughs at her own words. Or maybe she laughs at Sherlock’s befuddled look. Or maybe both, she doesn’t rightly give a damn. She stands from the couch on wobbly legs, uses Sherlock’s hand as support. Ignores the eyes boring into her until she’s certain she won’t crumble at the surprise, the worry shinning in them. Until she’s certain she can say, “You skipped your coffee.”

Until she’s certain the disbelieving laugh, the hesitant smile, don’t send her to the ground again. Until she’s certain her heart can take the sight without bursting.

(And she doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand until they’re in the kitchen, until she needs both hands to make the coffee. Until she hears the telltale sounds of Mrs Hatano coming home and her shriek of _Sherlock!_ )

———————

“Sara Shelly Futaba.”

“What?” Wato turns away from the kettle, turns from staring at the water to staring at Sherlock, who’s in turn looking down at her cup of coffee. Wato darts her eyes to Mrs Hatano but the woman’s sorting through the groceries, silent but listening. Definitely listening.

“My name –” Sherlock inhales, and Wato counts down from seven, only to exhale when Wato reaches _three_ , eyes darting up with a resolute glint. “Is Sara Shelly Futaba.”

_“Why do they call you Sherlock?”_

“Friend know each other’s name,” is all she says, one shoulder raised in a shrug as if she hadn’t just revealed one of her best kept secrets over coffee. As if she hasn’t gone out on a limb. As if she hasn’t revealed part of her hand. As if she hadn’t reached over to Wato and pulled her closer. Metaphorically speaking of course.

The kettle’s whistle startles Wato, snaps Sherlock out of her daze. Wato hurries to get it off the stove, hurries to finish making her tea, and plomps down next to Sherlock with such sped it shifts Sherlock’s bangs, earns Wato a curious look.

It grows only bigger at the sight of Wato’s smile, until it clicks, until Sherlock breathes out an _oh_. Until her lips twitch into a half smile, hesitant as it is cautious and she hides it quickly behind her cup.

 _Not yet_ , Wato thinks. But she will. She’s sure of that as she is of the place Sherlock has in her heart.


End file.
